


John's Legacy

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, IVF, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Surrogacy, There's a little of some non-consenting behavior - just a little., if you steal body fluids is it still stealing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3386495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now complete!  This fanfic tackles life at Baker Street set after the British Government "accidentally" cloned Sherlock Holmes.  Oliver Watson-Holmes lives with his two fathers and it about to embark on a whole new way of life.  This story is less about Oliver (although he is a wonderful child) and deals with Sherlock's endeavor to gift John with a biologic child.  Oh, and he never said anything about it to John.</p><p>"Congratulations, John, on the birth of your child."</p><p>So after reading Nature and Nurture, by earlgreytea68, this idea has been circulating in my mind ever since.  How can we give John biologic offspring?</p><p>This work will make much more sense if you have read Nature and Nurture, but would stand alone well enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Might Need Another Minute

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nature and Nurture](https://archiveofourown.org/works/729134) by [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver Watson Holmes lives with his two fathers at 221B Baker Street. Life is full, good, and has an occasional surprise in store. Sometimes it's John, sometimes it's Sherlock. Who are we kidding, mostly it's Sherlock.  
> When the British Government accidentally cloned Sherlock Holmes in Nature and Nurture, life radically changed. It's about to change again!

The day was tossed with frenetic energy. It didn't make any more sense than life on Baker Street usually did. It seemed Sherlock was running on energy drinks, and John was pretty sure he knew better than to try that after the incident with the high potency Colombian coffee last year. Interesting, but then so was the rest of life, so the residents of 221B Baker Street embraced whatever the day held.

Oliver, at the mostly-sweet and hyper age of 4, had boundless energy, and lately Sherlock had unfortunately been catering to his new-found love of sugar as the predominant food group. Maybe that was why Sherlock was dragging them from place to place, to expend some of the high-concentrated sweets related ebullience. John seemed to be fighting a losing battle, as he couldn't babysit both boys 24/7, and he was clearly outnumbered 2 to 1. In Sherlock's defense, however, when John fussed that Oliver acted just like him, it had been several days since he'd muttered, "what do you expect? he's me!". Living with Sherlock and his clone never ceased to amaze him. And he still, at times, when the moment was right, was able to look at them both, completely oblivious to life because they were so engrossed in something fascinating (like algae, a locust shell, or the phenomenon of fireflies, even better if they were dead fireflies), and realize "they're mine". And when John told Sherlock that he couldn't feed Oliver only sugar for the third time in as many days, both of them turned wide blinky eyes at him as if he'd finally lost his mind, as if he could tell them anything they'd actually comply with.

So the day started with tea, of course, Sherlock's with two sugars and Oliver's with many more than that. From there, a hike across town ensued, complete with romp in the park and a stop at a cafe for lunch, where John ate and Ollie played with a pile of mashed potatoes, making snowman sculptures for his Papa and molecular models for his Daddy. After lunch there were rain-clouds to explore and philosophize about, and then quite a hike back across town. John ended up with Ollie on his shoulders, holding stiff kid boots to prevent getting kicked repeatedly. The cowboy on John's shoulders said "giddy-up horsie" more times than he could count. He made a mental note to hide the DVD's that depicted any type of horseback riding, and was grateful that Ollie had no idea where Sherlock's riding crop had gotten to. With any luck, neither would find that for a long time.

"You know I am aware you hid that over the microwave."

John turned a blank stare to him. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Which of course, Sherlock knew was a lie. His eyes sparkled as he watched Oliver grab John's hair as John jumped up and down a bit, jostling him intentionally with excitement as Baker Street came into view. Ah, home.

The evening passed like many others, with Oliver in the tub practicing tidal wave creations. Fortunately, they'd patched and sealed the floor to prevent further dripping into Mrs. Hudson's, but John supervised to prevent an overabundance of water. While Oliver was otherwise occupied, John had taken advantage of momentary distraction of Sherlock as he paced the flat, animatedly talking on his mobile. Just as he'd disconnected the call, John snaked out an arm and grabbed him roughly around the corner of the kitchen. Surprise was in his favor, although Sherlock rarely resisted unless it suited him, which it did occasionally. He so loved it when John took charge, as he was prone to do, military authority ingrained, with Captain John in control and assertive in bed from time-to-time. There was warm lips, some razor stubble, fresh air, windblown curls, and a few minutes of heated kissing in the kitchen before there was a crash sounding in the loo that warranted investigation. Sherlock went this time, and a few moments later John's curiosity soon had him wandering down to stand at the doorway.

Ollie was standing on the edge of the tub, ready to leap into Sherlock's arms. John mused at how far his husband had come, allowing a tailored dress shirt to be barely remembered as they ended up in a tangle of wet slippery toddler and an oversized towel. Life was good.

For his genetic predisposition to not requiring much sleep, Oliver was exhausted that evening, and Sherlock got himself involved with one of his on-line cases. They shared a cup of tea, and joked about mainlining it throughout the day, which John knew in certain company, that would not be humorous, given Sherlock's history. That was a lifetime ago, but those events, like the pieces of everything else, wove into all the complicated tapestry of Sherlock's life, their life. But they still found amusement in the tea addiction. John's eyes grew heavy as he tried first reading then watching TV. Sherlock seemed not even remotely close to wrapping his evening up, and John said goodnight, barely noted a response, and climbed into bed. He was groggy enough that he didn't even recall pulling the covers up.

++

His dreams that night were alarmingly vague. He felt as if he were underwater, movements sluggish, droopy, reminiscent of thick oils on a cold day. Or a cold lava lamp. There was a pounding in his chest that seemed to involve a struggle, being chased then held down, there was such tiredness that even in his dream he couldn't open his eyes. There was Sherlock in his dream, whispering softly, touching his face, then, and he relaxed again under the water. It was warm, then grew hotter and his veins were on fire. His arms, legs, dead-limbed, and sensations surrounding up against him, and then blissful hot water like a jacuzzi and the steam of a sauna. He took a deep breath in his dream despite being surrounded in water, felt hardness between his legs, felt stroking on his shaft then, couldn't have been his own arms, they were too thick and heavy to move. His legs parted, it had been a long time since he'd been so affected in a dream, but it had been a couple of days since he and Sherlock had found the time for sex, so he gave his dreaming self permission, desire slowly building, detached as it were from the typical sensations. And then the waves crashed over his head again, breathing heavy under the water, stinging fire coursing throughout his body. He was sinking deeper, sexual satisfaction imminent. There was a vague stinging sensation in the bend of his arm, fire-burning in the water around him, heart-pounding, centering sensations, and in his dream, he climaxed, the sound of blood rushing and pouring in his ears. He moaned, and then there was blissful nothing. The waves that had rolled over him calmed, the storm over, the fire disintegrated to cooling embers and then blinking out completely.

++

The morning fog in his brain was hazy and not inclined to lift. His mouth was completely dry, cottony, and his limbs might as well have been buried in cement for as much as they were inclined to move. He rolled over, sensing he was still alone in bed, closed his eyes for just a few more minutes.

The few more minutes turned into longer, and there was vague awareness that the door opened a few times as Sherlock - or Oliver - stood there for a few minutes watching him sleep and willing him telepathically to get his lazy arse out of bed. John managed to open an eye, and watched Oliver wisely decide to give John some time and space. Sherlock stood in the doorway, leaning on the door jamb, arms sort of folded in front. "Go away." John tried out the dry mouth on the first words that occurred to him, and they came out muddled and quiet. He shifted positions, and heard footsteps retreating. He was unable to take stock in the morning events. There was a niggling feeling of dread that faded away as sleep overtook him again.

Sounds reached his ears in the flat later, that were normal sounds of microscopic examinations, something about cat whisker follicles, and within a few minutes, John was sitting up in bed, his bladder having decided it had had enough lounging around. As his feet found the floor, he realized that his large muscle groups were shaky, and he wondered if he was getting sick. And he recalled no alcohol but this kind of felt like a mother of all hangovers. A glance at the time confirmed his suspicion that illness must be impending, as he never slept that much of the morning away.

His reflection stared back, eyes slightly foggy and slow to focus. There was tousled hair, flat on one side, as if he'd done little moving in bed. His aching muscles were begging to stretch, and he wondered where the tylenol was as he used the toilet.

++

John rounded the corner, stretching a kink out of his neck to find Sherlock in the living room, still at the microscope with Oliver. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John's expression, and realized that he was, assuredly, in hot water. The sense of dread that John had an inkling of earlier was now coiled in the pit of Sherlock's gut. _Drat_. Every now and again, John's attentiveness slipped enough to let Sherlock get away with something. Apparently, not today.

Even Oliver, who would at least typically bound over to give him a good morning hug, seemed reluctant. Murderous expressions were not to be trifled with. Particularly when John was wearing one.

John's neurons were not firing at all well, some of them were still a distance away, synapses slow on the uptake, but he was clearing. Being upright was helping. He wondered if it was possible for actual steam to come out his ears. He didn't recall being quite this angry before, at least not in a very long time. It was fortunate for Sherlock - but unfortunate for him - that Oliver was in the room, an unofficial chaperone. He wasn't sure he could contain the words that were begging for release. He could, perhaps, tone down the profanity. For Oliver's sake.

"I think," he began, testing his voice and finding the Captain John restraint coming predominantly into play, "that I'm calling Molly."

"Oh?" Sherlock was looking rather tentative and John at least appreciated that he was sitting while John stood. It was helpful to tower over the person you had a beef with, yes?

"Yay!" Oliver called. "Let's go to the mortuary!" He bounced away from the table, paused while he looked at John. "Papa, you need to get dressed first."

John couldn't even wrangle a smile in Ollie's direction. His eyes remained connected with Sherlock's. "So if we were to run toxicology testing this morning, what would we find, hmm?" His delivery was low, serious, slightly menacing. The gravelly throat was an unintentional nice touch.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Sherlock asked. John noticed him absently rubbing his wedding ring with his thumb.

"Don't. Be. An. Idiot." His glance flicked to Oliver, who was clearly confused and wondering why no one else was grabbing jackets to go to one of his favorite places. The message in John's eye flicker conveyed: this sentence has been immensely censored due to presence of minor child in room. "Don't ever do that again."

"What'd you do, Daddy?" Oliver's voice almost sounded contrite. Clearly John's influence had something to do with that because contrition was definitely not in Sherlock's nature. John found slight pleasure in that. Slight.

"I borrowed something without asking first." John's eyes narrowed at the word borrowed.

"Borrowing implies returning. Are you returning my blood?" He held out his arm with the barely visible needle stick visible. "What else do you have there?"

Oliver's 4 year old self emerged. "We were comparing cat whisker hairs to human hair. Papa, look at how different they are..." He reached for John's hand, tried to pull him closer. John disengaged his hand, sighed, wishing not for the first time, that Oliver was in preschool. It was bloody hard to have a discussion without his presence, let alone the kind of argument John felt this deserved. None of the guys at the NSY would be surprised if John actually did Sherlock a bit of personal injury one of these days. "Yours are softer, lighter... come look!"

In order not to be cruel to their son, he looked at the two slides Oliver deftly swapped under the lens. "You like those?" he asked Oliver. The answer he got was mostly that he preferred the cat samples better than John's, but he at least backed it up with a few reasons. John didn't know how to feel about that. He turned back to Sherlock. "So back to the toxicology."

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request." Movie night did have its advantages.

John was not remotely amused. "I am calling Molly. And writing my own lab slip." He turned to walk away.

"Just some short acting stuff. Nothing that is probably still there."

"Well, pardon me for not believing you. Where on earth did you get propofol from anyway?"

His eyes narrowed. If he was slightly surprised, it didn't register much. And he kept silent.

"Green urine. Bloody physician, remember?" He had turned, stopped. "Anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm a bit foggier than what that should do. What else?" It seemed whatever answer Sherlock gave, John was going to hear, 'punch me in the face'.

"There was a xanax in your tea."

John exhaled sharply. The guy had no boundaries. None. "Why on earth? Did it ever occur to you to just ask for blood samples and hair follicles?"

"Would you have given them to me?"

"It depends on what you want them for."

"Research." He eyed John up again, trying to gauge how much anger was right there. "Can I have a toenail?"

"The whole thing? No."

"How about a skin sample from your scar?"

John's eyes closed as he exhaled. Maybe foggy-brained wasn't a bad thing until he assessed properly for bodily damages. His right hand slid up over his wound. No bandage. No new pain. He pulled the tee shirt away to visually confirm that he hadn't been harvested in his sleep. "No."

"I can see your point. Asking appears highly effective."

John's legs were tired from standing. He needed fluids to detox, he realized, and he needed to sit down. In that order. "You know," he said, returning from the sink with a large glass of water as he headed toward the couch. "If we ever renew our wedding vows, I think I'm going to insist that you promise not to come after me with needles, specimen containers, or a scalpel." He drained the glass, put his feet up, pulled a blanket over him. He leaned his tired and fuzzy head back on the couch, eyes drifting closed. His missed Sherlock's sigh of relief.

Oliver came over, grabbed the blanket. "So when are we going to Molly's?"

++

Later that afternoon, Sherlock decided John needed fresh air therapy. He and Oliver poked, prodded, and cajoled him into getting dressed. Finding some annoyance that they were actually right, John did feel somewhat better as he stretched out sore muscles. Oliver ran ahead to the park swing, flung himself into it, and Sherlock took John's hand, relieved when he didn't pull it away.

"I am sorry, you know."

"Propofol's dangerous outside of a hospital setting. You're not trying to kill me, are you?"

"I was careful. Interesting though, at your doses, there shouldn't have been green urine." John did pull his hand away then. "And there's literature on post propofol infusion syndrome. Interested in doing some simple experiments and then being written up for science?"

"How are you going to pull that off - even if I was willing, which I'm not - it's illegal. Extremely."

He made a face then. "Drat." The phone rang then, it was Lestrade with another case. Oliver must have caught on, came over, and the three of them, one still slightly hung over, caught a cab to the next crime scene.

++

A few nights later, case solved, Sherlock finally exhausted, he climbed into bed at the same time as John. It was the first time he'd done so since John's urine turned green, which, of course, had long since cleared up. But it was still a bit frightening for John, being so completely shocked at the discovery that every time he visited the loo, he was slightly concerned.

Sherlock reached a warm hand out, touched John's shirt, pulled him closer. Eyeing him warily, John offered no encouragement. "I'm not looking for mind altering substances tonight. In case you needed clarification."

"Please let it go. I said I was sorry." Sherlock started to withdrew his hand, but John caught it, held. "You can choose tonight if you want..."

A small laugh caught in John's throat. He took the hand, bent it, levered Sherlock on his side, held him steady while he reached around to slide his free hand into pyjama bottoms. "Oh, I am definitely choosing. And you're going to love it." His hand reached under the pillow, grabbing the lube he'd already placed there, and Sherlock caught a breath as he did. Some strategically placed lube in various places had Sherlock arching his back and leaning quickly onto John's fingers. His shaft soon followed, and John reached around Sherlock's waist, giving him a firm few strokes. "Oh, I had the craziest dream the other night, but this feels... oh my God...amazing." John's arm held Sherlock firmly at the shoulder, not brooking any attempt at doing anything other than receiving. Each time his back arched, John nearly pulled away. Each wayward snake of an arm seeking John's solid thigh or muscled waist was rebuffed. After a few times, John grabbed his wrist, tucked it under the pillow, held it with rigid hand clamped firmly, and finally snarled, "Do that again and I'm pulling out. Lie still."

The pace continued until John could no longer fend off Sherlock, too far gone himself, and on the brink of orgasm. He felt his cock swell thicker, Sherlock did too, moaned against him in either mild discomfort, pleasure, or both. John's fist clenched around Sherlock's and wasn't sure from whom the louder "Jesus!" moan was coming from. Spent then, both of them, John sighed and kissed the firmly muscled shoulder as their breathing calmed and they finally eased apart.

The two of them, limbs entwined, sticky and sweaty, ended up face to face in a warm and comfortable embrace. Sherlock let his hand slide gently down the side of John's face, pressed a kiss to his temple, and allowed the sensation of gratitude to wash over him. He was not frequently given to those surges of emotion that John tried to explain to him from time to time - John was prone to express himself much more than he was able to reciprocate. But today, he pressed his cheek to John's, offering a nonverbal 'I'm sorry and I love you and I'll do better' sentiment. John stretched slightly against him, tightened his arms, reveling in the contact. "I know," he murmured. "Love you too."

++

After summer holiday, Oliver started school and, in John's opinion, adjusted smashingly to his new routine. Sherlock, on the other hand, groused much more than usual. Even several months in, he seemed restless. He even texted Mycroft, for God's sake, frequently, and John was starting to get a bit worried. They attacked some complicated cases with a vengeance. Sherlock seemed driven by -- John couldn't imagine. Demons, perhaps. An insatiable productivity monster. He was non-stop. John did ask him if he had a gambling debt he was trying to pay off as the cheques rolled in. Oliver even asked to have a weekend together, off, not working and running amok in the city. Sherlock continued to work at that pace until finally, John pulled rank.

"Oliver, please go upstairs and find something to do. Just for a few minutes, ok? Please?"

His eyes spoke the same 'I'm humoring you because you're an idiot' that his father frequently used, but he obeyed. John sighed, realizing the power of nurture yet again. "When can I come back down?"

John met Sherlock's eyes. "When the yelling is over. Or when the front door slams." Each audience member had the good graces to smirk, at least, John observed.

"Okay." Oliver paused. "Who is going to slam the door this time?"

"Whom do you think?" John asked, carefully.

Ollie looked between them, nodded to himself, and said as he walked to the steps, "Dad will."

Both men watched him go, and John spoke first, chuckling. "He's fantastic. An absolute character."

"He's you today, you know." It was a rarity that Sherlock said something so sweet to him, about how, at times, Oliver was channeling John's temperament. An underhanded compliment, but John stored that away for later.

"So something on your mind that's making you go non-stop?" he asked, and settled back in the plush chair. "You said it wasn't a gambling debt." Experience dictated he would now be patient and wait.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, pensive, thinking. "What would you think of, maybe, in a few weeks, taking some time off. Just the family."

He waited, wishing he would elaborate more without John needing to ask him anything more. Long seconds ticked by. "Is that why you're working so hard now, to take a break?

"Kind of. Maybe. I don't know." Uncharacteristic indecision. And undeniable, definite evasiveness.

"Tell me. The truth this time." He pretended to check his veins for puncture marks, his hair for missing clumps. "You didn't inadvertently take one of my kidneys while I was sleeping, did you, and you're feeling guilty?"

"No," he said, cocking his head slightly. "Can I have your spare kidney?"

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request." He didn't want to get too far off topic. "So you can slow down some before your family stages a mutiny? Because you're driving us both crazy, you know."

"I'll try. Can I have your appendix then?"

"No. And not my gallbladder, and my tonsils are already gone." He stood then, came over, slid his hands tenderly up along the taller man. Sherlock not only allowed the hug but returned it, lowering his head for the meeting of lips, followed by tongue and playful nipping. John's hand worked between them, seeking the hard ridge of cock that only came to further attention under his touch. "Hmm, maybe not the best time for that, then." Despite the words, he leaned into him, feeling both heart rate and breathing accelerate.

Sherlock chuckled a bit, then, said, "Give me a minute to sneak into bed, go slam the door, and then claim you have a headache. Oliver can manage for a bit." John might have said no except that Sherlock's hands were full of his already puckering nipple and the back of his thigh, pulling them close with far too many layers of clothing, and leaving no doubt as to the ferocity of his intention.

John nodded. Maybe relieving some sexual frustration would be a good starting point.

++

The workload didn't actually change much over the next few weeks, but John could tell Sherlock was making an effort to be closer to home, less likely to be across the city, and he tried to tone down the frantic pace. There was an anxiety at baseline, though, and occasionally John aimed for distraction. He invited Mycroft and Lestrade over one night for drinks, but only Greg could spare the time. Oliver, with childlike bluntness insulted him casually while they were watching a TV show when Greg didn't see a crucial twist of the plot. That ended up being a rather creative distraction, listening to Sherlock explain to the boy about social vicissitudes. Mycroft rang Greg then, who commented that he was on his way over.

From the vantage point of the window, Sherlock went out to meet him outside, which was somewhat unusual but not unheard of. It did give John and Greg a chance to comment on the perpetual secretiveness of the Holmes' brothers. John shrugged. "When it's time, they'll let us know."

++

A text came through the following week late one night. Sherlock was strung out like a thinly stretched rubber band, and actually, somewhat rudely tried to send John to bed while he fussed and rambled on and finally left the flat, unable to even sit still. These nights came fewer and farther between, and not that John appreciated it, but he had been through it enough to know that it would be ok. John looked in on Oliver, who was sound asleep in his bedroom upstairs, nightlight glowing softly. In the dim light, his long fingers rested casually on the pillow by his face. He was still shocked sometimes how alike they looked particularly in the completely relaxed stages of sleep. The flat was calm and peaceful now that Sherlock had taken his uptightness to the streets. John slept, one ear attuned to noise in the flat, which didn't happen until well after 3 am. Sherlock's side of the bed remained empty and cool.

The next morning, John awoke, plodded into the kitchen to find him reading the Mail, writing in his blog, and sipping tea all the while perusing an article about pubic hair follicles. John thought perhaps he should start sleeping with his Browning under the pillow to protect against further insult of his own personal hair follicles. But before he could announce his intention for said protection, Sherlock announced other plans for the day. Oliver would be going to Mrs. Hudson's before and after school, if they weren't back yet, and that he and John had a morning appointment and would likely be tied up for the rest of the day.

Sherlock watched him as he blinked, weighing his words. "I do have to work, you know."

"Call out. It's important." He took a sip of tea with slight hand tremor.

"No. I do have a job. I'm good at it. It's called responsibility."

"You do it for a case pretty regularly."

"Tell me what this is all about, then."

His lips tightened. John was initially ready to choose this hill to die for, but then, adding up recent behaviour and the clenching of Sherlock's jaw muscles, and some sort of radar perhaps, he sensed something was in the works. It explained the edginess, the mania of the previous evening, even over the last few weeks. He took Sherlock's hand, and found it cold and slightly clammy. His fingertip slid to his pulse point, and found it very rapid. They did that to each other periodically, checking pulse rates, so both sort of expected it from time to time. Elevated pulse rate could be lying, stress, or arousal. Kissing the back of Sherlock's knuckles, he waited until he looked him in the eye. "I trust you, you know." When Sherlock nodded, he continued. "I'll do it if you say it's that important." Sherlock nodded again, his pupils dilated, catecholamines surging, ready for battle, heart pounding. John pondered what the enemy was as he phoned in to the clinic.

Ollie was settled, and excited at Mrs. Hudson's, and Sherlock hailed a cab. It was, surprisingly, a short trip to St. Bart's.

John's medical mind whirled into possible scenarios, most of them unpleasant. "You okay? Schedule surgery or something today without telling me?" If that was the case, surely nothing major as he'd had tea that morning. Something else, then.

He could see Sherlock's jaw clench. He'd seen anxiety in him before, certainly, but this time it felt bigger, had him silently on edge. Curious, slightly queasy, John allowed Sherlock to lead up to the 3rd floor. Mycroft and a few of his minions were waiting. The brothers nodded at each other, a serious undertone, and Mycroft opened a conference room door, allowed them to step inside. Sherlock gestured to the table. It was just the two of them, and John was suddenly, grippingly afraid. And Sherlock's tell was back, that subconscious touching of his wedding ring with his thumb. Nerves. Unease.

It was showtime.

John gingerly sat. Breathing seemed something to be done very shallowly and with much trembling. He wished Sherlock would sit down, too, stop pacing, just be out with it. At the very least hold his hand. I've turned into a romantic sap, he bemoaned.

"I've done something." John's mind whirled between visions of him in jail, or on the run and this was goodbye, or that he and Oliver were moving or some other equally fear-inspiring scenarios. "Done something." He repeated, tentatively. "I've been thinking about it a long time, and I wanted to... I wanted you to have something... I took it. I'm giving it back today."

There was a rap on the door, it opened. John stood as in came Mycroft, a nurse, and an official looking woman with a thick folder of paperwork. And a bassinet complete with a newborn inside. _What_?  Mycroft nodded at Sherlock, and dismissed the nurse with a wave of the hand.

John's breath and his voice were tight, quiet. "What. Have you done?"

Sherlock had a slightly pained expression. "We might need another minute."

Mycroft's gaze was steadily fixed on John. John's eyes were riveted on Sherlock's expression, and he looked intermittently, helplessly, over at the bassinet as the chair looked more and more like a promising alternative to his legs buckling. Shocked didn't begin to cover his features. "I think you're going to need the rest of the day, brother mine." He looked at his pocket watch, then, and turned to the woman. "There are obviously questions here and a discussion that does not concern you. In order to expedite the process for you, what needs to be done here?"

"Good morning, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. I am Cassandra Kinsley. I am St. Bart's social worker. I will be needing some signatures. From Mr. Holmes, here and here. And from Dr. Watson, similarly." She produced a pen, handed it to Sherlock's outstretched hand. He leaned over the table, signed with a quick flair where she pointed, and then looked pointedly at John.

He opted to look cautiously at the forms, at the pair of brothers who, frankly, looked ready to either catch him if he toppled out of the chair or subdue him if he became violent due to the maelstrom of questions he had. "You are most definitely going to explain all of this?" he queried of Mycroft first. He nodded, his head tilting in his typical sideways polite nod. "And you," he said, with a degree of consternation, "I want the truth. Every damned bit of it."

"Agreed."

He sighed, took the pen, signed where he was told to. The woman pulled out an additional paper. "Discharge instructions. Standard. Number to call if you have questions. Paperwork in this folder." She gestured at the paper again, and John signed. "Congratulations, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes."

She turned, smiled again, a pained, formal smile, and left through the door Mycroft held open for her. He took a seat, then, and both of them looked again at Sherlock. Expectantly. When he was silent, John could stand it no longer, he scooted the chair back and pulled the wheeled bassinet closer. In it lay a newborn, eyes open, sucking on a fist, calm. There were no tags, no bracelets, and the clothing was white. He pulled the blanket aside, seeing fingers, a rosebud mouth, dark blue newborn eyes.

"Congratulations, John. On the birth of your child." Sherlock's voice was thick with emotion, and John was absolutely struck with the enormity of what he said. His eyes welled up, his breathing caught, and he lifted the baby from the little cot.

"What. On. Earth... You're obviously joking." He looked from one to the other and was met with serious silence. Several things occurred to him: neither was joking, and the presence of the social worker seemed to imply some legitimacy to this. To this... What? "Buggering hell. Is this..." He choked slightly on the words. "Boy or girl?"

His shoulders lifted in uncertainty. "I wanted you to be the first of us to know."

He deftly unwrapped the baby, and for the rest of him shaking his hands were steady. He apologized slightly as the baby watched him with closely focused newborn eyes but didn't seem to mind until he unhooked the nappy and then let out a wail. He bundled the baby back up before Sherlock got a glimpse. "Well?" he asked.

"I'll tell you when I feel like I've been brought up to speed on everything else." He eased the baby up, head resting on his shoulder, and patted said baby on the back like he'd grown so accustomed during multiple and frequent paediatric patient visits at the clinic. This was, he realized, supporting a wee head and a cocoon of blanket, much smaller than most he held at the office.

"John, that's not..." He stopped, realizing. He'd been about to say _fair_.

"Start talking." His thumb found his way into the baby's fist, and he breathed in the new baby scent - mild baby soap, clean linen, sweetness - as Sherlock explained. He'd wanted to give John a biological child, he explained, with minimal attachment on the part of either the woman who carried the baby or the woman who provided the egg. The egg was harvested from an organ donor who'd been declared brain dead after a motor vehicle accident. John supplied the sperm, and the embryo was implanted into a well-compensated woman who had been a surrogate for several other couples unable to carry a child. She'd delivered yesterday, without complications, and the baby was free and clear to go home with them today.

"And when you say I supplied the sperm, exactly..." John spared a glance at Mycroft, who met his gaze evenly although he had the good graces to have a slight amount of colouring. Obviously his role had been crucial to this endeavor and he was in on the subterfuge.

"Last year. You thought I was after blood and hair follicles. Yeah, there was a bit more to it than that." John remembered the green urine and the dream. Or what he thought had been a dream. The baby was wriggling now, and John felt like covering the poor innocent ears of the child. His jaw came in contact with a rooting mouth.

"Is there a bottle?" John reached over toward the bassinet for the binky that was there. But quickly, Sherlock found the bottle in the cabinet under the bassinet, handed it to John.  Sherlock watched raptly as John settled the baby into the crook of his elbow and offered the bottle.

Touching the thick file folder, Sherlock continued, "Here are all the records. Of the egg donor including her family history. Of the birth surrogate. The date of the implantation. Prenatal care, delivery record, and her history. All the testing they did. Blank forms for the birth certificate when you're ready."

John watched as bubbles streamed from the nipple of the bottle as the baby suckled. "It's a girl." He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. "I -- I -- I'm shocked. And I still have questions." She stopped sucking then, eyes wide open at his voice.

Mycroft spoke up then. "Of course you do, Dr. Watson. All in good time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So propofol does cause green urine. And post propofol infusion syndrome is real. Some of the rest is of course, improbable at best...
> 
> Chapter 2 is nearly complete, working a couple of glitches out and enjoying every random story thread that wakes me up in the middle of the night.
> 
> Enjoy!


	2. More Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new resident of 221B Baker Street - John's surprise daughter. John has concerns about the process, their family, the patriarchal decision made in a vacuum, and about helping them all adjust. Sherlock has concerns when the baby throws up on his shirt.

While Mycroft seemed in a hurry to leave the hospital room, John and Sherlock were not. Once John had finished feeding her the bottle, he was loathe to put her down. Instead, he rose and stood near Sherlock, gently placing the newborn into long and gangly arms. Idly, he felt rather detached, as if observing from afar. His gaze took in a curly head of hair bent toward a now-sleeping baby girl, watching as a long finger touched her cheek, eyebrow, and peeked under the knitted white cap at the sworls of dark, fine hair. John watched a slow and deliberate clearing of the throat then, as Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet John's own.

"She's beautiful. Of course." There was a smile from Sherlock, but John was still slightly numb. Neither of them took their eyes off her for very long. As if afraid she would vanish as quickly as she had come.

Mycroft slipped out of the room, quietly, only to return with an infant car seat with glittery pink blanket and cover and a changing bag.

John nodded, spoke out loud, then, "Of course he knew it was a girl."

Setting both down on the table, he turned to the trio in the room. "Some photographs here, before we go?"

Sherlock recognized John's sense of being overwhelmed, answered affirmatively for him. Mycroft left the room again.

"Ok?" he asked, grabbing John's arm firmly and giving it a bit of a tug. He left his hand there a moment, lingering warmth.

"Of course. Um, sure.... I will be." He laughed then, remarked, "You know this is the most... insane thing ever. Lunatic." He touched his daughter's little white blanket as Sherlock held her close. The door opened again, and Mycroft's PA flitted in, took a bunch of pictures, posed and candids. White hat swapped out for pink, a pink blanket wrapped around them all. With quick instruction, Sherlock laid the baby down in the bassinet for an obligatory hospital photo, and then turned to John, reaching out long arms to pull him close. He knew John had always found solid physical embrace very centering, calming, reassuring. He was rewarded as John gulped in a huge shaky breath, released it, and Sherlock could feel some of the tension leave him. He was vaguely aware of another photo being taken, and stepped away.

"So that's it, seriously? They're just going to let us leave with her?" John looked to the brothers, who both nodded.

He must not have looked convinced, and it was Mycroft who said, "Of course, John, she's yours."

"Ours." John clarified. "Ours." He punctuated the statement by taking Sherlock's hand, and was himself rewarded with a warm smile that Sherlock saved for rare moments.

In short order, the car seat was filled, as was the bag with the file folder of paperwork. The room seemed oddly charged as John turned, holding the car carrier, to leave the hospital. He partially expected to be tackled by burly security guards. John headed to the west entrance where the cab stand was, but Mycroft halted him.

"Dr. Watson," he began, sharply, using the title that John knew meant formality - and likely snobbery - was approaching, "do you really think I would let my new niece travel home in a _cab_?" The final word came out with distaste. He led them to the kerb, but did not join them, tipping his head and noting he had other things to attend to, and he thought they might prefer some privacy.

The quick trip home was mostly in silence, and John bit his lip once to make sure this was as real as it gets. Shocking. Shattered reality. Who knew that when he had awakened this morning that by lunchtime he would be home with a ... daughter. What the buggering hell. A bit of a laugh burbled out of him before he could stop it, and Sherlock touched his hand. "A bit unreal, yes?" he said.

"You know you and Oliver are forbidden from doing experiments on her." At Sherlock's sharp gaze, John continued. "Prohibited. Off-limits. Absolutely not. And in case it needs restating, not on me either." He waited for Sherlock to unlock the door. "Speaking of Oliver, any thoughts on telling him?"

"Why would we need to prepare for that?" Sherlock was making those owl-blinking expressions again.

"You don't think he might be a little jealous? You think he's going to like it when she takes up time that's right now his?" John stepped through the open door, made a few owl-blinkings of his own. It was kind of a deja vu moment, from years past when Oliver had arrived with his entourage and baby gear. The paraphernalia that awaited them now was no different, except pink. There were some baby clothes, supplies, pink cases of nappies, formula and a welcome home mylar balloon. And a small sized cot that needed assembly. "And speaking of what you've obviously already figured out, any plans for a third bedroom in that glorious head of yours?"

"Oliver can share for the few weeks it will take to convince Mrs. Hudson to let us cut through into the other side of the attic. Unused space, already have a contractor lined up. She won't say no when she sees... her." They smiled at the deliberateness of using the correct pronoun.

"She needs a name."

Sherlock took the car seat from him, eased John into a chair, set the baby down on the floor near him. He paused, getting down to John's eye level by folding long legs. "First things first. Relax. Get to know her. Paw through the file. I'll fill in the holes for you." He went to stand up again, but John reached out, halted him.

"Okay, as you say, first things first." John had nowhere to look except into the fathomless eyes of his husband. "Thank you..." his voice broke, he pushed on, clearing his throat. "Thank you for... I can't believe... never expected."

Sherlock skimmed out a warm hand along John's face, pausing to caress tenderly along the side of his eye, another gesture he knew John was extremely fond of. "My pleasure. You're welcome." He stood. "Tea?"

John didn't look up or bat an eye. "Please. Hold the Xanax in mine, if you would."

++

Sherlock returned to find John holding the baby as he read through the file folder. She was asleep in the bend of his knee, bundled still in pink and white, like a taco. He set both cups down, then joined him on the couch as John started perusing information about the donor.

"And keep it coming, I think." He gestured at the cup, smiling. "How long ago did you get this crazy idea?"

Sherlock eyed John with amusement. "Ah, interview, part 1. Oh, Oliver was maybe 3. We were out someplace, and I remember the three of us stopping to check out a mirror. I saw how much Oliver and I were just -- obviously -- so much alike, his hair was growing back in, the curls, after..." his voice trailed off. John remembered all too well the horrors of Baskerville and the trauma they all suffered. "You ruffled two curly heads at once, and... it just seemed like we needed your looks in the mix."

"And so you called Mycroft."

"God no." He looked aptly horrified at the suggestion. "I did hours of research first. And then I told Mycroft how this was going to work." He gestured to the folder. "It all became a timing thing. We needed a surrogate who was sort of flexible in the planning, and I insisted on someone not likely to have decision regret, therefore, a repeater." He pointed to the folder. "But finding the donor proved harder than I expected."

Surreality had set in, John realized as he perused the health history of the donor. She was mid 20's, graduated from Cambridge and joined the military as a negotiator. She made excellent grades, gave up theater for the trombone which she played in the ensemble before the accident, and was a defender on the unit football squad. Favorite authors included all things adventure with a fantasy flair. And sadly, all cut short about ten months ago when her car was struck. All car occupants had died on impact, except her. Reading to himself, John looked grief-stricken, Sherlock noticed, and explained that usually reproductive organs are exempted from organ harvest, but the law allowed for it, and the fertility clinic -- . He began to elaborate, John put his hand to Sherlock's mouth. "Stop. Plausible. Deniability." At the slight incline of Sherlock's head, he continued, "Don't say anything more. That way it can never be beaten out of me." They shared a smirk, humour touching a bit close to home from some of their adventures. "So once there were eggs harvested, the surrogate was notified, and you came after me with propofol and a specimen cup."

"And a very willing helping hand." Sherlock reached out, then, for the baby, thinking to himself that John's turn had been long enough. And, all fairness aside, Sherlock had been waiting for this day for much longer than John had. "You were rather cooperative, though. A decent period of abstinence and a deliberately physically demanding day. One of Mycrofts minions delivered the ejaculate to the fertility clinic immediately, and from there fertilization was right away, with implantation a couple days later... There are records I think from here."

He turned his attention back to the baby, lifted her so that her nose was at his collarbone, and he inhaled the baby smell like he'd seen John do earlier. Oliver had been a solid four months old when he'd come to Baker Street, and this little girl was a wisp in his arms by comparison. She wriggled and made a tiny noise. He slid the cap off, smoothed the fine baby hair.

"That's pretty amazing, then, that this came together at all." John turned back to the paperwork. While it was thorough, her history was rather limited, the family healthy, living into their 80's, no prevalence toward chronic diseases. He turned to the next page. Saw the photos. And for a long moment stopped breathing. And closed the file, handing it silently back to Sherlock. "I... How...?"

++

Sherlock watched John rise, unsure and uncertain. He'd expected this to be a bit of a shock for John. Time to regroup. There were some things to be done, and while they had time before Ollie would be back, he was ... actually, this was John's day, and if he needed the entire day to regroup, that was perfectly fine.

The baby stirred, commanding Sherlock's attention through no force other than sheer existing. Her eyes open, dark, and he felt her back arch through the blanket as she squirmed. It occurred to him he should set her down, straighten up the flat, put other things together - wow it had been a while since they'd had to actually assemble baby trappings, he realized. Mycroft's delivery included the barest essentials, just as requested. He wanted to take care of the rest tomorrow with John and Oliver, and Sherlock placed her back in the car carrier until the small cot was usable. John was at the window, a palpable 'don't touch me' expression. And, he thought, trying to be empathetic, who could blame him. Quite a lot to absorb in a very short period of time.

Before long, Sherlock'd stacked a few supplies so it didn't look as if they were living in the baby aisle at Tesco, but before he'd gotten too far, she was crying, a thin, high pitched newborn cry. John watched Sherlock watching him. There was a twist in his chest, a feeling that suddenly, this would all vanish and he would be bereft. Unreal. Unbelievable. Unexpected. He had learned, years ago when Sherlock went away, that tragedy can strike, that devastation can turn you into an empty shell, and it didn't take much of a threat to bring deep rooted insecurity front and center in his cerebral cortex.

Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed Sherlock carrying a few boxes upstairs. The baby was really winding up now, had only been a few moments, but time was passing askew, and so John picked her up, soothing. She was wet, and he dug out a change of clothes, nappy, set about making things a-right. The physician in him took over then, the role never turned off entirely, and he assessed quickly, head to toe. His bag was close, and he listened for the strength of the murmur that would dissipate over the next few days. Her fontanels were normal and soft. He cleaned around the umbilical cord stump. Her little body was perfect and petite, fine downy newborn hair still on her back. A bit early, then, he realized. Dry clothes didn't help to quiet her. He'd found a dark pink sweatsuit, with the snaps that Sherlock had always professed were ridiculous. A blanket went over his shoulder and he dug out a bottle of formula, went to the kitchen to heat it. The squalling got louder. "You have a good set of pipes, there, wee one. We'll get you taken care of right quick." He prattled on at her while the bottle slowly heated. Sherlock stood watching them from the living room, listening to this new... daughter, he thought trying out the word for size. And liking it alot. John startled to see him watching as he crossed the room, prepared to take a seat for the feeding. Sherlock stepped aside but reached out both hands, one for each, a slide of hands along his family, his growing family, he realized, up one since this morning. Crazy. Seriously crazy. No wonder John was still slightly dazed.

"Your papa gets grouchy when we don't feed him enough too. You come by this fussing quite naturally." He dipped his head, thinking to kiss the top of her head, nuzzled her and directed lips toward John instead.

"I don't fuss."

"You absolutely do too." The bottle worked wonders in quieting the screaming, but the jerky breathing remained as the baby calmed down slowly from her fit. "Cute outfit." They shared a glance. "For ridiculous baby clothing." He leaned a hip on the edge of the table. "She was hungry, apparently."

"So," John began, looking pensive. "How did you go about finding a donor? How many did you turn down before choosing... do we even know her name?"

"First off, perfectly legal. The donation consent form covers any and all abdominal organs, which would include, obviously, ovaries and all the pieces thereof." Sherlock watched slightly nervously as something like anger flicked across his face, beginning with a frown and ending in thinly compressed lips. Probably inappropriate timing to notice they were less kissable when John was irked. "Mycroft did not include the name but it was easy enough to discover. It's not in the paperwork, though." The words tumbled out, then. Car accident. She was driving when they were hit. All fatalities except the girl. She was listed on the organ donor register.  Mycroft's connections typically do not disappoint, John saw. "And I didn't turn down any. Mycroft knew what I wanted. This option suited fine."

"This option." John tried not to seethe. This was not the day for it. And he knew Sherlock separated very easily from emotion in most cases, and crime scenes in particular. "She died. Those people in the picture lost their sister and their daughter. Her unit lost a soldier. And they have no idea what happened afterward. This might be completely legal but it's pretty damned unethical."

"John." They paused conversation while John took the bottle, held the baby up over a shoulder, rubbing her back to elicit a dainty and wet-sounding belch. He offered her the rest. "They don't know of course. This changes nothing for them. Grieve for her if you must, but this accident was 10 months ago." He told John then, about the fertility clinic, the lack of paper trail, and that the process at this point became theirs. The surrogate had actually offered, through the staff, that the adoptive family could attend the birth if they wanted. Sherlock turned that down flatly, and John was glad. The thought of the detective in a highly charged delivery room would likely have ended with them getting thrown out anyway.

"You have to admit, though. Those photos are unnerving." Sherlock had sat down, crossed one long leg over the other, and opened the file again. They were close enough that John could see that he flipped to them. The photos included a formal of the woman in full military regalia, a candid of her with her unit, laughing, blond hair kind of tussled. The one that had stolen John's breath, though, was the one with her brother. Who looked like a younger, slightly taller, version of John Watson. Similar, like a cousin or something. It was mildly disturbing.

"Military background was a plus but accidental. I told Mycroft that I wanted genes that resembled yours." At John's smirk, he shrugged. "What can I say, I'm taken by the way you look."

Footsteps on the stairs, then, prompted Sherlock to shelve the folder. Mrs. Hudson rapped lightly on the door, calling out her typical "Yoo-hoo, boys?" as she did.

Rising and striding to the door, Sherlock glanced at John. "Ready?"

"Bring it." John figured they would be lucky if someone didn't lock them up for crazy behavior. Although, well... Sherlock had escaped thus far, perhaps that was in their favor.

There was a lot of surprised blinking in the flat and vicinity that day. Mrs. Hudson was floored, shocked, and then said, "I thought I heard a baby on the telly. But its a real baby on Baker Street! A glorious idea indeed. She's beautiful." John placed the nearly sleeping, sated baby in Mrs Hudson's arms as she stood there. "Oliver will be so thrilled, a big brother finally! I'm amazed Ollie kept it to himself so long."

John paused, pulled in a quick breath, said, "Yeah, it's kind of a surprise."

At that, she smiled again, looking raptly down. "Well, I'm sure it will be just fine." She admired the baby's outfit, tucking in the blanket around her. "What's her name?"

"We'll keep you posted about that." Sherlock eyed his watch. "We are home, so Oliver can come right up, Mrs. Hudson."

She was already nodding. "To meet his sister, of course, he'll be right round!" She stood then too, "I'd best be off." To the baby, she cooed and kissed her sweet face. "Welcome home, precious. You're going to love your family!"

John helped Mrs. Hudson to the door while Sherlock put the baby back in the carrier.

++

Once she'd gone, John turned, arms crossed. "What, exactly, do you have in mind for Oliver?" When met with silence, he pressed. "Surely you have a plan." The sarcasm went unnoticed as the baby slept, blanket tucked in, blissfully unaware of her two fathers slight unease with each other.

"He's going to find this a great adventure. Trust me, John. He's --"

"I know, he's you." A hand rubbed at his chin, then. "And you've never had a problem sharing, have you?" To his credit, John did not bring up all the sabotaged dates and the work shifts punctuated by neediness of his spouse.

"You worry too much." He opened John's laptop, typed in a few things, gestured widely at the chair next to him, and said, "Here, come shopping for baby names with me. What do you want, maybe you take first and I take middle this time?" They had chosen Oliver's name thusly, and, while it was quite a mouthful, it worked. And it suited him. John could only nod in agreement.

Sherlock was silent as John looked over the lists he'd bookmarked. Finally, he closed the lid after several minutes. "You're not focused."

"Hello? Have you met the day I've had?" His expression and gesture implied obviously, I'm here aren't I? "No, from my perspective, I mean. Obviously." Two could play with sarcasm. Inner debate raged behind his eyes, slight headache. "You do realize, typically married people talk about big decisions. Typically. What couch to buy. Where to send their 5 year old to school. Holidays." He let the thread fall. "So if I'm a bit... unfocused, I'm sure you can deduce why, hmm?"

"You know, studies show sleeping on a hard surface without a pillow is actually good for cervical spine and quality of rest. I was thinking we should consider it." Sherlock had that amused expression as if he were waiting for John to catch up. John was ready to put on that aggravated face because Sherlock was so far ahead, John might never get there without help. Sherlock broke the silence again, finally. saying, "We should probably invest in a car and save money on cab fare and tube costs." John watched him carefully, sensing he would be landing the plane shortly and not wanting to deprive him of the final coffin nail. "Or, how about this good idea, maybe we should give my DNA to the British Government. I'm sure it will be fine. Just fine." He took one of John's hands, brought it to his mouth, his eyes serious and bright and sparkling with intensity. "Had I asked for your permission, you would have been unlikely to give it. But I will meet you part way and ask for your forgiveness." John's voice crackled slightly as he cleared his throat, opting instead to nod. "I should probably admit that I'm not particularly sorry about it - how could I be? She's part of the family now. She's home."

++

John needn't have worried quite so much about Oliver. Oliver and Mrs. Hudson came up the steps, chatting about the school day, obviously eating as he spoke. Oliver was telling Mrs. Hudson how much he liked the cookies, and John deliberately ignored the sense of queasiness in his gut.

His observation took in much in a glimpse, much like Sherlock. A brief survey of the room began and ended on the baby dressed in pink asleep in the small cot. His knapsack dropped along with his jacket, and he walked over to the bassinet, placed his hands along the edge and peered in intently. Sherlock stayed seated, an ankle crossed over a knee, engrossed in a research chemistry periodical, although certainly aware of the rest of the occupants of the room. John, however, joined Ollie to watch the baby, still asleep.

"Papa?" It was unusual to render the lad down to few words, John knew.

"Would you like to hold her?"

Big blue Sherlockian eyes turned toward him and he nodded slowly. "She's sleeping."

"That's ok. She's going to want to meet her big brother." John lifted her, and continued. "Soon as you wash your hands." He was already nodding. Some of his favourite experiments with Sherlock were based on the rampant bacterial contamination on various public surfaces. Elevator buttons had grown some great cultures over the past months, and they had a new set of culture media swabbed from mobile phones which were incubating at various temperatures. Ollie made quick work of washing, came back out. John waited for Oliver to sit, and he placed the baby in his arms. Ollie watched her for a brief moment as she stretched and wiggled. When her eyes opened, his mouth curved into a broad smile and he reached out a tentative finger to brush her check. When the baby turned toward his finger, demonstrating the rooting reflex, Oliver burst into an actual giggle.

"So she's ours? To keep?" he asked, his excitement almost non-containable.

"She is." Sherlock set the magazine aside, leaned forward to adjust Oliver's arm behind her head. "Hold snug here, her neck muscles aren't strong."

He made an adjustment, looked to his Dad for approval. "Like this?" then beamed as the baby regarded him a few moments before starting to fuss. "What's her name?"

"We're kind of not sure yet." John answered this time.

"Papa, she needs a beautiful name."

++

John went into the kitchen to heat formula for her as Sherlock grabbed a fresh nappy, Oliver paying close attention. John found it slightly easier to exhale now that Oliver, so far anyway, seemed completely unrattled. He listened, smiling as Sherlock undid clothing, chatting with Oliver as he did.

"What on earth is that?" John paused, suddenly concerned, as the voice speaking was not the curious 5 year old's but the slightly alarmed 37 year old's. Who had much less grounds to be verbalizing statements like that.

He turned the corner of the kitchen to confirm that both Holmes's were looking intently at the baby. The diaper was still on.

"John." His voice bespoke underlying alarm, but not at a decibel level enough to alarm Oliver. They were looking at the black knot of umbilical cord stump.

"You do realize that's normal."

"No, actually that can't be normal." Sherlock insisted.

John was ready to give a quick explanation until she started to cry, kicking both legs randomly, nearly striking Oliver's head, which was very close as he intently watched everything like a hawk.

"Don't flick it off. It's attached. It would hurt her." John could tell what he was considering. The bottle was warm, and he held it while the nappy was undone. There was more hesitation.

"You do realize that's normal, too. That's what a girl looks like." It had been a few years since Sherlock had changed a diaper, but he attended to the task, telling Oliver that a boy has a penis, a girl has a vagina, which Oliver accepted readily. Scientists, the both of them, John mused not for the first time, smiling. John realized they were going to have to prepare Oliver again with the social graces of what is typically talked about in school versus what is not talked about. The first parent teacher conference had been rather enlightening as the teacher explained that Oliver had shared with the class some specifics regarding rotting flesh and how quickly putrefaction sets in.

He handed Sherlock the bottle and a cloth, then turned to Oliver. "I was thinking you and I would head to the deli and pick up dinner for all of us, bring it back here?"

"Can she come too?"

He grabbed two jackets, one big one little, and said, "Nope, just you and me this time, ok?"

Oliver headed down the steps, smaller legs running ahead and leaping the last four steps. John looked back at Sherlock. He was all big blue pale eyes at the little girl, a smile of utter contentment and wonder. He must have sensed the look, raised his head then. They made eye contact, exchanged smiles, and John went chasing after their son, who was jumping up and down in impatience.

++

John took full advantage of a few minutes with Oliver to talk about what a new baby would mean to all of them, their family, their routine. He asked a few questions that Oliver seemed rather insightful before answering, about his things and his room and his perhaps needing to wait a bit longer for parental attention. Oliver then did grow very serious, then, and asked John with very large questioning blue intense eyes, "But Papa, what was that thing on her tummy?"

Hmm. Indeed, Oliver, how much scientific information would you like here? he wondered. John kept walking, slowly, "That's from when she grew inside a mommy's tummy, and helped her grow until she was born. It's called an umbilical cord." He blinked a few times, and John wondered again if the mind palace was truly genetic and if Oliver was looking for a place to store that bit. "You had one, too, as a baby. It falls off after a week or so and you're left with a belly button."

A thoughtful expression remained on his little face, and then he smiled again. "When it falls off, Dad's going to want it."

John erupted in a laugh before he could stop it. "But not you, you're not interested at all?"

A guilty flush crept over his cheekbones. "Well, kind of. You know, for science." John ruffled his hair, kept walking, wondering for the first time in his life exactly how much bacteria something like that will grow out in a culture.

When John and Oliver returned carrying dinner, Sherlock was obviously cleaning up formula from his shirt, the chair, and the baby was asleep again in a new outfit propped on several pillows in the corner of the room. John raised an eyebrow, asked, "Having fun?"

"She eats entirely too much. And too often. I have evidence to prove it."

"Did you forget to burp her?" He looked puzzled. John sighed. "We'll talk. Go change if you want. We have dinner."

Oliver looked so grown-up, John thought, compared to that very morning when they'd sent him off to school. He regaled them with a few stories from the day, likely slightly embellished, but, as usual, he asked questions when they tumbled free of his busy mind.

"Uncle Myc is a big brother, right? And Aunt Harry is a big sister?" Both men waited to see where he was going with the question. "And now me. I'm a big brother."

"It's a very important job," John told him. "You'll be able to teach her things, and watch out for her."

"But Uncle Mycroft is a terrible example. Consider anyone else," Sherlock advised. "Or you be the example," he quipped. "Maybe you can be the one to show him to be nicer to me."

"You're not very nice to him, though, either. I'll bet she'll be nicer to me than you are to Uncle Myc."

When Sherlock seemed intending to engage the 5 year old in an argument, he caught sight of John's silent warning expression and changed his mind.

After dinner, Oliver wanted to read to her, so he gathered his favorite easy reading book, his skull, and Sherlock slid the baby on his lap while he did. After the book, he had an epiphany, apparently, as he got very excited and yelled loudly. The baby startled, began to whimper.

"Did you see what she just did? Throwing her arms out like that? So cool!" John explained about the Moro reflex briefly. Ollie continued then, quieter. "We need to blog about her! Can I do it? Please?" He looked from John to Sherlock and back, then said soothingly to the baby, "We want to tell everyone about you, it's ok."

Sherlock looked ambivalent. "She kind of needs a name first, don't you think?"

John was nodding, but Oliver insisted. "Just a picture then?" Oliver reached for John's phone, then, "I'll take one of all of us, it'll be cute." The photo ended up on Ollie's blog, then, but Sherlock, with his long arms, seemed a better choice for the taking. Oliver posted the photo from John's laptop.

Sherlock worked a while at the computer, while John directed Oliver into the bath. When he had finally gotten the boy tucked in for the night, he returned to the sitting room to find Sherlock on the couch, arm over his face. "You have to be exhausted, you never did sleep last night."

"If I stayed here any longer, I would have told you and ruined the surprise. I had to get out." He chuckled then. "Keeping a secret like this was bloody hard."

"I feel terrible for you." Sherlock made a snarky face, hearing the sarcasm. John Joined him on the couch by levering himself under Sherlock's legs, and he exhaled fully, it seemed, for the first time that day. "What do you think of the name Rose?" he asked quietly.

He wriggled his toes into the couch again, getting comfortable. "There's an envelope on the table next to you." He spoke without sitting up or reacting much, and John could hear the fatigue.

The envelope was sealed, just had his name on the outside. "What is this?" and opened it before Sherlock could fire off a scathing remark. Inside was a card, flat, and simply read Rose Gianna Watson-Holmes. "How did you know that?"

"You've always loved the flower. It's prim and proper and sweet. Of course, I wrote that before she threw up on me." He moved his arm, then, and they quietly shared a smile. "Harry mentioned once I believe Rose was the name of one of your grandmamas. Or an aunt. I deleted the exact relationship, unfortunately."

"Great grandmother."

"I like it. And of course, not the primary reason, but, well, I know your mind, John. I've spent a lot of years trying to figure you out. The name suits you." Their hands sought out each other, solidly, comfortably. "And," he said with a smile, "It helps that the name Rose goes along with the best Doctor's companion ever."

"True. Hadn't realized." He felt the stress of the day relaxing off his shoulders, then, as the name settled over the room. "Rose Gianna..."

"Of course. After you." Sherlock sat up the rest of the way, then. "Watson-Holmes suit you okay? You could stick with just Wat--"

John was already shaking his head as Sherlock sat up. "No. This is our family. It's perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and suggestions welcome for the brief "snippets" of their adventures as they settle in as a family of four. Chapter 3 will be much, much shorter, full of fun and different aspects as these non-traditionalists get to know their daughter. She promises to be a complete handful!


	3. Rose Clippings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose's first night, and first month, seems punctuated by nearly non-stop crying, to the distress of her family. Follow her antics from temper tantrums, to school adventures, to how she procured her first mobile phone, and on through some teenage rebellion to some dating - and honestly, who would really want to date Sherlock's daughter!! - to a very poignant ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Rose, is a Rose, is a Rose.

Rose's first month made John question his gene pool and Sherlock question his sanity. There was very little sleep, a lot of crying and fussing (some of it indeed John's), and fatigue on every face at Baker Street. Even Oliver was growing tired after too many interrupted nights' sleep. John had only taken a week off from work, long enough to fill out the birth certificate and oversee the creation of the new bedroom, which of course was entirely too far away for the kind of baby Rose ended up being. She ate, napped, and appreciated being held. And that was about it. John tried all manner of stealth to slide her from a position in the arms to her cradle or cot, but all ended in an unhappy wriggling followed shortly by cries of displeasure (some of these cries, yes, were Sherlock's).

"John, she is so _needy!"_

He steeled a glare at Sherlock, many outright responses on the verge of being blurted out in returned frustration. What he didn't say: this was your bloody idea, she's picked it up from you, or, worse, so are you, you big idiot. What he chose instead, "She's a baby, what do you expect?"

The crying was particularly annoying to Sherlock at night. "What is the matter with her, John?" he muttered as they both lay in bed, the baby crying from the cradle that was toward the foot of the bed, close enough for John to nudge it into motion with his foot. As if that ever helped.

"Nothing's the matter with her. This is what babies do some of the time." He turned, rolled, stretching an arm across Sherlock's chest. "Maybe she'll go back to sleep."

Rose's cries changed to a thinner, more pathetic little wail, a quivering sound that seemed punctuated by tremulous extremities that they could hear rustling as she fussed. Sherlock expressed his disagreement. "Something is the matter with her." He flung out of the bed, adjusting his sleep pants, stood at the foot of the bed. "Oliver never did this."

John bent up on one elbow. "We didn't even know Oliver until he was 3 months old." He signed. "You want me to...?"

But Sherlock was already bending to scoop up the squalling infant. She was nonplussed at her change of position. Attempting to wrangle a burp out of her was unsuccessful, and he murmured to her that her incessant squalling was starting to get old, perhaps she should reconsider her appalling behavior. Drawing her blanket around her, he gathered his dressing gown, her already warmed bottle from the warmer, and told John to rest.

John found them the next morning on the couch. The mostly empty bottle had been discarded carelessly on the floor, and Rose was asleep on Sherlock's chest. Her hands were curled up by her face, her knees drawn up, her backside in the air, while his hands snuggled her protectively. In the completely relaxed stages of sleep, John had never found either of them quite so beautiful. Sherlock's long eyelashes fluttered open then, perhaps feeling the admiring gaze. Of course, the few hours of stolen sleep he'd managed probably made him much more amenable to those kind musings.

++

And then, just past her one month birthday, someone somewhere flipped a switch. She smiled. She slept, most of the time through the night anyway. She latched onto Oliver's skull. To Sherlock's delight, she listened intently to the violin. She took longer naps. She started watching things in the flat, and was intrigued by her fingers. She wrapped the men of Baker Street around her finger, and it would likely never untangle, as hearts were involved.

They job shared the baby chores out of necessity. Sherlock often took the night obligations as he required less sleep than John, and John did have to work. They weren't too tired to joke about their nearly absent sex life, but things were heating up. John was ready to make a move as soon as it seemed reasonable to relocate the now-mostly-sleeping-through-the-night baby into her own, new room. It had turned out wonderfully, opening into the hallway upstairs. The room was sweet, and decorated, of course, with a few things pink, and Rose, and clever. 

Relatively regular nocturnal rest allowed life to resume to some degree of normalcy, for Baker Street anyway, and John actually felt somewhat human again. It was a good sign, he realized, when Sherlock pressed him up against a wall in the kitchen under the guise of checking on the bottle warmer. Hungry lips, thighs, and erections pressed into more of the same, followed by a quick tease of frottage and the exchange of tongues.

"It's. Been. Too. Lo-o-o-oong." John punctuated the sentence with a rubbing display of the length he was considering.

After an interesting evening with many references to the mounting sexual frustration, Oliver and Rose were finally tucked away in respective bedrooms, the baby monitor finally getting put to its intended use. Heated glances were exchanged, a kiss imbued with pent-up tension, and when John looked at his watch for the umpteenth time in the last hour, Sherlock actually chuckled. It was kind of a toss-up who dragged whom down the hallway that night.

It was John who finally muttered, after, "We may actually survive her childhood after all." It had been over entirely too soon, hands and mouths hungry for giving and receiving pleasure. The baby monitor was silent until the first light, and both parents made sure to compliment the hungry baby the next morning with words of gratitude and encouragement for her newfound behavior to continue.

++

The folder containing all of Rose's pre-birth history was finally packed away with other sensitive documentation in a locked drawer. John had finally received all the answers that his physician-soldier mind needed, with only one minor meltdown that occurred several days after Rose discovered the pleasure of nocturnal slumber. He had been perusing the folder, a thought slammed into his mind, and the alarm in his voice was unmistakable. "Sherlock!" He appeared, his full attention awaiting.

"How many embryos were there?"

"One, obviously."

"Usually they fertilize more than that, and implant up to 3 at a time you know." He was amazed the thought hadn't occurred to him previously, but acknowledged the evils of sleep deprivation. "You said you researched this process."

"I did. As far as I know, only one." But even he looked concerned. John wasn't sure if it was an oversight or that he feared for his life now that John was on to his antics.

It ended up being a question deferred to Mycroft, who, within a few hours, arrived to the flat. Mrs. Hudson was visiting Rose at the time, and John didn't have the heart to reclaim the baby, so he and Sherlock stepped outside with Rose's imperious uncle. It was a relief to discover that Rose's birth was indeed a single birth, and that there were no remaining frozen embryos, although Mycroft did offer to repeat services again if John was willing to provide a fresh specimen to a courier, at which point, both Baker Street residents spun on their respective heels, one with flourishing coattails, the other with a sudden impulse to sleep in long sleeves. And with his Browning under his pillow.

++

"Courier?" John had Rose in the bathtub and Sherlock had poked his head in. Upon hearing John's question, he probably wished he hadn't.

"Of course. The sample needed to be fresh for optimal sperm motility." The purse of his lips could be autosubstituted for 'boring' and John narrowed an eye at him.

"Is there anything else I should know about what might have happened after the courier left, hmm?" Rose lifted easily out of the tub, happy to be bundled in a towel, and blissfully unaware of the discussion regarding her conception details.

"Of course. I kept a close eye on you. If you must know, I was awake hours, monitoring your breathing mostly, while the drug cleared." John handed a fluffy toweled bundle of Rose to Sherlock's waiting arms. "Stop worrying, no additional crimes were committed against your person while you were sedated."

The conversation wasn't quite over. The next day John sat down, took the book from Sherlock's hand as he sat at the kitchen table, the microscope in front as he compared findings, and was pleased that there was at least a look of concern in the face opposite him. John placed the book on the table with a _thunk_ and waited for Sherlock to look at him.

"Stealing someone’s body fluids is technically assault, you know."

He shifted a microscope slide around, made a humming noise of interest, then responded to John, "Actually, it would be theft. Probably petty theft, although said child is anything but petty. Theft is only a misdemeanor. And we're married, I'm not sure pressing charges would gain you anything."

"Oh, legalities aside, I'm plotting revenge. Against your person."

"Be still my heart," Sherlock mocked, sarcastically, breathlessly, "are you planning an assault? Of my person?" Oliver was at school, Rose was already in her cradle upstairs for a morning nap, and Sherlock leveled a predatory gaze at John. "Or are you considering theft?"

John reached over his shoulder for the tie on the dressing gown, pressed it aside, and tugged down the zip. "Thought we'd start with a bit of indecent exposure." His penis was beginning to get very interested in these proceedings. The tie on Sherlock's dressing gown slid out easily from the side loops, and John looped it expertly around a wrist, twisting so that attempts at freedom would only serve to tighten said belt. As he tied both wrists together, he nudged Sherlock's face with his own, growling, "Restraints.  Or this might be construed as kidnapping. Coercion? I could maybe do unlawful detainment."

Persistent tugging at his elbow and careful steps across the living room found Sherlock shoved somewhat gently over the arm of the couch and flat on his back. His shaft grew harder at John's sudden lunge toward him as he took him quickly into his eager mouth. Nothing gentle about the firm strokes or the sudden pulling away. He divested them both of their clothes, with a bit of assistance from the all-too-eager man sprawled on the couch. "I think," John muttered, "that this," he said, drawing both hands into the mass of curls on Sherlock's head and shaking them wildly, "might just have to do for disorderly conduct."

Lips met, and Sherlock murmured, "Now you're just silly."

He drew a tube of lube from his jeans pocket, flipped the cap up. "Accessory to the crime?"

"Shut up and get to it --"

"Aaaaaand there's the solicitation."

\-- Sherlock growled back at him, "or you might find out that extortion includes threatening to disturb the peace. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would not like to hear too much noise coming from the flat this morning."

A few moments later, Sherlock nearly carried through on his statement, John's name wringing from his throat, unable to contain neither the sentiment nor the sweaty, passionate romp-induced keening on the couch. It wasn't until they heard the first, faint sounds coming through the baby monitor that John roused enough to go get a flannel. He cleaned up himself in the loo, tossed a flannel at Sherlock. "I'll get her. Better make sure we don't add child endangerment to the list of crimes."

Sherlock could only roll his eyes.

++

 One Friday night, Mycroft invited them all over to his domicile.  They were instructed to bring the whole family and whatever accoutrements to allow an overnight.  Neither felt like dragging all of the paraphernalia that traveling required, even lightly as possible with two kids, but John pulled rank and they found themselves in one of Mycroft's car fleet.  Soon enough they were seated at the entrance.

"You do know this is likely a baby shower?" John told him.  His blank expression clearly revealed no such supposition.  "Play along, have fun."

"The only fun in a shower that involves playing would be with you."

Greg answered the door, the dog barking in the distant parts of the house. John had hung back enough that Sherlock entered first. He was glad he warned him, for when a small gathering of people yelled surprise, John had to forcibly keep him, discretely from the back, from turning tail and running out the door.

++

Molly's gift was a box of small headbands, frilly girl accompaniments, and a very sweetly written letter offering to take Rose shopping when she was bigger "frequently" in order to give her someone to talk about girly things. When Sherlock puzzled over the gift, John could only snicker. "You do realize that, eventually, we are going to have to explain body functions, girl body functions, to her. Shaving her legs, buying a bra, the whole thing." Sherlock stood then, with much formality, crossed to Dr. Molly Hooper, and gave her one of the most sincere hugs that most of the people in the room had ever witnessed.

++

John never ceased to be amazed at what he would come home from work to find his family ensconced in. When Rose was about 4 months old, John opened the door to find Oliver and Sherlock collapsed in hysterical laughter, one on the couch, the other sprawled on the floor. Rose was sitting in her seat surrounded by a few rattles, toys, stuffed gadgets, and was staring at them, clearly uncertain of why they were just so odd. John couldn't blame her too much for that look. Sherlock collected himself to address John. "Watch this."

He drew a rattle from out of Rose's line of vision, her latest favorite, which was a flowering rose with a bumblebee clip at the top. Her face lit up, she burbled at the toy, bounced a few times excitedly as she listened to the noises. Sherlock then reached out for it, held it, and as Rose let go, he moved it out of her vision again. Oliver whispered, "watch!" Rose's sweet brown eyes filled to their brims with tears, her rosebud mouth puckered slightly, slowly, and her lower lip quivered and then became the biggest pout that John had ever seen on anyone. Ever. The pout stayed for a long drawn out number of seconds, maybe almost a minute, and then turned into a slow, steady, low-pitched moan. Even as he smiled broadly at the ridiculousness of the pout, he lifted her up, crooning to her gently that her rattle, indeed, had actually survived the separation. She blew a raspberry at him in appreciation.

One other day after work, when Rose was close to her second birthday, John came home to find Sherlock, Oliver, and Rose having a tea party with the skull and Rose's new doll. She was giving directions about holding out the little finger "popperly", she insisted. There were scones involved, John presumed from Mrs. Hudson. Coat hung up, briefcase with a few leftovers to be attended to, dinner to enjoy, clearly John had an idea of what he was hoping for the evening. All went immediately out the window, and he pulled up a pillow to join his family while discussing how to get his little finger to stick out "popperly". Oliver watched in horror as Rose actually tipped the skull's tea, spilling it on the table. Sherlock took his own napkin, dotted the skull's mandible, chiding it gently to be perhaps a bit neater in the future. Their eyes met, exchanging complete and utter amazement at what their lives had become. The sparkle in Sherlock's eyes were reflected in John's. Neither would trade any of these moments for anything else. Glancing around the table as Rose pried Sherlock's finger unnaturally outward, fussing at him, John laughed, drawing Sherlock's attention curiously. "Probably not a good update for the blog, yeah? The Tea Party's Silent Guest?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, speaking as clearly as if out loud, "Don't you dare."

Another day John came home for lunch to find Rose dressed up in an apron and high heels that Molly had given them in a box of some dress up accessories that she thought Rose might play with. Sherlock's head was bent in concentration, eyebrows furrowed, large hands working steadily at something that John couldn't see from his vantage point. Rose, too, was sitting quietly, steadily, waiting patiently. Their foreheads were almost touching. John hung up his jacket, stepped to the kitchen and stopped to take in the scene. Tenderness welled up inside him and he couldn't imagine loving anyone any more than he did right that moment.

_Sherlock was painting Rose's fingernails._

++

The work day ended with a misty rain as John walked home. He lowered the umbrella and brushed the rain off his sleeves as he crossed the threshold at Baker Street. There was a good bit of yelling, he realized, as he jogged up the steps and opened the door of 221B. Rose's face was red, her light brown pony tails shaking as she screeched somewhat incoherently. A few intelligible words including "no", "I don't want to", "you always ask me", and "I hate you" were among them. Mostly it was just shrieking. Sherlock and Oliver watched her red face screaming, which was then followed by stomping down the hall and up the stairs.

"What on earth was all that about?" John asked, taking in the speechlessness of the rest of the curly-headed males in the family.

The one-sided smile of Sherlock's and the sparkle in his eye appeared as they heard the door slam upstairs. A few moments passed, and the door opened and slammed again.

Oliver eyed the ceiling as if he expected some sort of weaponry to crash through. "Dad asked her to put her shoes on so we could go outside."

Pursing his lips slightly, John angled his head, considering the unreasonableness of the request. "Hmm. Kind of like asking someone to get the phone that is in their own pocket then?"

Sherlock looked up, then, chuckled out loud. "Is that what you wanted to do?"

He hung his coat, crossed to greet Sherlock with a hello kiss, to which Ollie complained, "Eww, stop!" John eyed him and Ollie backed away. "I could pitch a fit if you want. I'd be better at it." He was grinning, those light blue eyes sparkling as well, and John lunged for him, taking him from the couch to the floor and tickling until he was laughing nearly uncontrollably.

Sherlock caught his eye, looked upward, and said, "You're really going to tick her off, doing that."

To which John sighed, knowing he was right, and he stood to go have yet another conversation with their temper-tantrum prone 3 year old.

++

It was Rose's first day of school, and she was barely out the door before Sherlock was lamenting her new schedule. He had grown very accustomed to her companionship. His very next statement was asking John if he thought they should have another one? John could only blink. His laptop suddenly binged as Sherlock Airdropped him a list of possibilities to make another child a reality. John could have thrown a shoe at him as he read. 

He sighed. "Okay, first off, I don't think #3 is legal in any country. And, unless things have changed since the last medical conference I attended, male pregnancy is still unachievable, so that lets out number #8. And they're all kind of impossible, really, unless you want to move or have additional walls to break through, I don't especially want to move. And #12, well, I don't think even Molly would be able to help you with that." He glanced over, then, finally, giving - apparently - a disappointing reaction as Sherlock watched him. "Sorry love. You can begin sulking anytime."

The photo that was then airdropped from Sherlock's computer to John's screen, copied from some site, removed any sulking from either party completely off the table as they snickered at each other and adjourned to the bedroom to try some ideas from a completely different sort of list.

++

Rose came home from school one afternoon complaining that some of her classmates were not very good at solving problems. Both John and Sherlock turned to her as she told the story of a Missy's lunch money being taken for the second time this week. Rose volunteered that it was a good thing Missy had taken to coating her money with a chemical that turned a student's hands green if they touched it. All but one student pulled their hands out to look at them, including Missy, Rose explained, rolling her eyes like Sherlock was prone to. The student who hid his hands had hugely wide eyes as the teacher came over to him. When the teacher gently asked to see his hands, he fussed, resisted, and acted guilty. The teacher insisted, and he was shocked to find that his hands were actually not green. He seemed triumphant, even while acting guilty, Rose complained, until she called him on his behavior and he finally confessed. 

Sherlock asked why she had done it, and how she had figured out the mystery. Rose acted like it was an everyday occurrence, as if it was her obligation to restore the balance in the classroom. John pressed gently for the outcome, and Rose explained, "Well, he gave the money back, of course. But would it be okay if I took extra for him tomorrow? I think they don't have much food at his house."

John could only smile at her and nod. She cared about people so much.

++

Sherlock had designated Tuesday evenings as violin lesson evenings, and Rose had been studying for over 6 months. She had a steady hand, and a good feel for the extension of the bow across the strings. The orchestra section at school was something she got involved in, and it seemed to suit her. So this particular Tuesday evening found Rose determinedly mimicking his fingerings, bowing, and shifting. She had learned to play with her eyes closed from time to time, savoring the sweetness of the smooth strings. At one point of the lesson, she stopped playing after repeating a tricky set of measures until she'd mastered it. She left the instrument held between her chin and shoulder rest, but her bow hand dropped to her lap. It was unusual enough of a position for her that both men paused their workings on the latest research for a case, Sherlock had been watching over John's shoulder, to watch her.

John broke the silence when it seemed indicative of something on her mind. "Rose, you ok?"

Her eyes flicked quickly to Sherlock, the smile somewhat forced, and she returned to the piece of music. "Of course."

John saw Sherlock deduce the problem, knowing that look as well as he knew any other look after many years studying each other. There was a sweet smile on his face as he stood back up, "You know, Rose, there are many other instruments. Maybe after a bit you might want to think about, perhaps, learning a different one. You might find it useful to branch out a bit, as it were." He had her attention. "You have talent, a beautiful sense of the music. And of course, a good violin teacher." She snorted slightly; at age 9, she had learned to give grief thoroughly to both fathers when opportunity presented itself. "It wouldn't be a bother in the least if you wanted to learn something new."

A flicker of concern washed over her face, then, and she looked again at the neck of the violin, fingering a bit of the music in front of her. Her silence was telling. John appreciated it so much that Rose tried very hard never to hurt anyone's feelings, theirs included.

Sherlock delivered the bottom line then, with carefully chosen words, "It would bother me, though, if you wanted to make a change and didn't feel you could say something about it."

She put the bow down across the stand, then, lowered the instrument. Her chin came up then, and John watched her weigh her words. "I think I'd like to learn the French horn, then. Long as you're okay with that."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "French horn. Should be lovely." To John, he said, "they make a mute for those, right?"

Laughing, John said, "I was a bit worried there for a moment. Thought you were going to pick something enormous, like a tuba."

Rose looked a bit excited then, clearly having this discussion had been weighing on her. "No, no tuba. I liked the trombone, though, too. But I picked the French horn because it'll be easier to carry around."

Later that night, John reminded Sherlock that the donor of half of Rose's genetic makeup played the trombone, and both were pensive for a bit, until Sherlock commented that perhaps they should just count their blessings and be grateful.

++

John and Sherlock were finishing up some crucial developments at the latest case when John's reminder on his phone chirped. Rose, at age 10, was needing to be picked up from her French horn lesson at the teacher's studio. He texted Ollie, who, at 15, was available and would meet her there, walk her home. They had done this on occasion and today would be no exception. They watched as the crime scene photographer snapped images of the position of the body and the evidence before allowing John to perform a cursory medical examination of the throat wounds and evaluate the congealing pool of blood.

Rapid, focused footsteps approached, and Sherlock looked up to see Greg heading right for them, a look of serious wide-eyed alarm on his face. He touched John's arm, conveying a message just by touch. They stood. Catecholamines surged, skin tingling, eyes wide. Something was terribly wrong. Greg pushed them toward a waiting police car as he spoke, "The kids are at St. Bart's A&E. Go immediately." He accompanied them to the car, explaining the little he knew, that an ambulance had been summoned and was taking both Oliver and Rose to the hospital. Rose apparently had told the driver to notify DI Lestrade, so their parents would be notified.

"What?"

"I don't know any more than that." Greg was not delaying their departure. Johns mind whirled, why didn't they call? Clearly Rose, at least, had been conversant. They both checked their phones. "All I know is an ambulance was dispatched to Clivenden Street." The teacher's street. He shut the door, rapped twice on the car top, and it sped off.

Lights and sirens shortened the trip slightly, but traffic was still heavy. There were no words exchanged. Sherlock's phone chirped as they arrived, an incoming text from Mycroft. Ignored. Doors flung wide at the entrance, they entered abruptly, and an officer greeted them at the door, expression serious, mouth set. "This way," he said, his pace rapid as he led them into the patient bay. Oliver's shoes stuck out of a tangled sheet on the stretcher.

Several providers were leaning over Oliver's face, a procedure light illuminating something that neither parent could see from behind heads in the way, working on their son. A nurse with a clipboard appeared at John's side. "Dr. Watson. There's been an accident." She went on to explain that an ambulance arrived to find Oliver bleeding from several head wounds, brought him here, and the surgeon had just arrived to evaluate things. John's survey of the scene saw many things at once, including non moving feet, non struggling arms, and some bloodied gauze on a paper shield that had been placed over Oliver's chest. He stepped closer, introduced himself to the surgeon in low tones.

Sherlock noticed, however, something that John missed on his primary survey, and strode to the chair along the side wall of the bay to lift a wordless, serious Rose into his arms. His arms drew her close, a warm hand soothing her back, and the previous calm Rose had displayed deteriorated briefly into a few shaky breaths as she clung to him. Sherlock touched John's shoulder, gestured with a nod of his head that he was taking Rose into the hallway.

"Shhh." He made no move to set her down, but pulled back slightly to see for himself that she was indeed unscathed. The detective was reluctant to go far from Oliver, but knew John had things well in hand. Division of labor frequently included Sherlock taking care of criminal aspects while John worked the medical. This was the first time they'd tackled this from within the A&E ward with their own children involved. They stood in the hallway behind the curtain, their heads together, and it was hard to tell who was clinging tighter, the father or the daughter.

The story came out that, with a bit of tender prompting, Oliver had picked Rose up as planned and they'd barely started out for home when they came upon a few teenagers hassling a homeless guy in the alley. Oliver spoke to them harshly, told them to knock it off. Rose trembled as she related how Oliver had pushed her away and told her to run as one of them advanced on him. From what Rose saw, the guy pushed at and then swung at Oliver, knocking Ollie's phone into one of the deeper puddles at the kerb. In Rose's mind, she wanted to make sure that he knew why they hadn't notified either dad directly before moving on to the update about what had then transpired. The teenagers ran off, as did the man in the alley, and Rose apologized for not getting a better look at any of them. While he had evaded the punch, unfortunately, off balance, he slipped and fell face first onto a piece of metal fencing. He'd been knocked out cold. Rose said that she called loudly for help, and eventually a few people came over.

A passerby had called the ambulance, waited until it arrived. At that point, Rose told Sherlock, "I told the ambulance driver to call Lestrade so he could get you both." Rose explained that someone who stopped to help tried to roll Oliver on his side because of all the blood around his mouth, but Rose refused to let them. As Sherlock hadn't seen Oliver up close yet, he asked where Oliver was bleeding from. "His forehead mostly, but his tooth came through his lip I think. And that his mouth was bleeding a lot."

John came out in the hallway then, his expression somewhat relieved. "He's awake. They're stitching him up now." His eyes met Sherlock's, and the tilted world seemed slightly less askew now that they were at least in relative proximity. "I hear fantastic things about you, yeah." He said to Rose as he leaned in, kissed her temple and ruffled her hair. "So proud of you and can't wait to hear all about it."

"I would've called, but Ollie's phone got wet." She wriggled out of Sherlock's hug then, eyed the men up with all solemnity, and announced, "I think it's high time I got my own mobile."

Later that evening, still in the hospital waiting for discharge paperwork, Mycroft strode in to confirm for his own eyes that his niece and nephew were okay. He congratulated Rose on her level-headedness and bravery, while making sure Oliver knew he had done the right thing right up until the point when he fell. Mycroft informed his brother that CCTV tapes were being reviewed and they were hopeful for a positive ID. He slipped two envelopes to John, who exchanged a look at Sherlock, who merely nodded. They were labeled O and R. John passed the R envelope to Rose. "I think this is for you. We all agree that you are going to need one of these." Mycroft had even gone to the trouble of placing the new mobile in a sturdy pink weatherproof case. She nodded solemnly at them all, thanked Uncle Mycroft, and then smiled a very large and very young looking John Watson grin. Oliver took out a new mobile as well, also complete with protective case, and, with his face enormously swollen, lisped, "Thankthh Uncle Mycrotht." 

++

Rose entered the flat, swearing under her breath. Late again. Which might not have been a big deal except for her overcontrolling, ridiculous, slightly neurotic parents. At 13, she felt as if she needed some breathing room, but the parental rules meant checking in at all times. Nothing had happened lately, Rose whined to herself. Trying to act casual, she breezed in, offhandedly saying hello and making an effort to head for her room immediately.

"You're late." John spoke.

"Oh, yeah, oops, sorry. Stopped to talk to Mrs. White." Certainly they would be pleased about her interacting with her teacher.

"Nope." Sherlock was reading, paused to speak, then take a sip of his perpetual Oolong tea.

"She wanted to talk to me about that paper on time travel. I got an A."

Sherlock barely breathed, certainly didn't move at all. "Nnnnope," he said, drawing out the word. He didn't even look up.

*Stopped to chat with Carmine on the playground after Mrs. White..."

"Actually, you didn't." He glanced up then, briefly, took in the room, winked at John discreetly, and then back to his journal.

"Well okay then truth is, Jeannie and her mom... " Sherlock looked up at her, the lie caught in her mouth, apparently, and she pursed her lips. There were no words needed as he fixed piercing, curious eyes onto Rose's. John watched the dynamics play across her bold features. She wasn't that skilled a liar, fortunately, he realized, particularly under Sherlock's scrutiny. It was something of an effort, but worth it, to school his features into a benign expression as he watched the non-verbal standoff.

Defiant silence ensued. Eye contact. John could almost see Rose weighing her options.

Sherlock laid his journal aside and stood, approached where she was standing. "The truth is you, Jeannie, and at least one boy went to the park. He brought cigarettes. You thought about it but didn't want to try it for the first time with an audience. You're afraid of coughing or choking in front of your so-called friends. From there you went to the cafe, met that other boy you've been watching on Facebook, and had milkshakes. He's got a girlfriend already, you know." John recognized Rose's defeat in a slight change in her shoulders. His annoyance at her lying changed to something akin to tenderness as he watched her eyes get slightly moist. Sherlock was displaying no such tenderness. "I'm not sure why you think it is acceptable to disregard instructions to come right home after school and to let us know about changes in plans."

"Ev--". He held up a hand and she cut off the word. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

"Because it is not ok. And not advisable to continue with this type of deception." A wave of his hand dismissed her, and she turned to stomp off, her sob catching in her throat until she reached the stairs.

John waited until he heard the thick chunk of the door closing before speaking. "How could you get all that out of observing that little bit?"

A slight smirk touched one side of his face. "Faint cigarette smell, not enough to be first hand. Park, obviously from the windblown ponytail. Guessed on the one boy, but it was more likely him than Jeannie buying cigarettes." He took the journal up again, continued as he sat down, "And the cafe was a bit of inside information: Oliver offered to wait on the kerb and walk home with her. He texted me a bit ago."

"Okay, not quite as amazing, then. But still bloody brilliant."

++

The door opened only half an hour after she'd left, much earlier than expected. The sound of the footsteps thudding up the stairs did not bode well. Sherlock was researching a case, and John was doing some medical journal perusing when the door abruptly opened, and a very furious and very wound up Rose returned.

"Oh boy," John said, only loud enough to Sherlock to hear.

Rose erupted into the room, threw her jacket on the couch, eyes ablaze.

"You men," Rose snarled at John and Sherlock, "are all royal pains in the arse." And then she burst into tears.

She'd been so excited for the evening, a date with a boy from school. John had insisted on meeting him, and she nervously had arranged that. Ron had arrived promptly, extended sweaty palms while offering stiff hellos all around, and the pair had set off for -- as Sherlock bemoaned -- the cliche'd dinner and a movie. Bor-ing. But they'd said nothing to Rose, the flush of her 16 year old cheeks and sparkle in her eye gave them all such pleasure. The obligatory date introductions were something both John and Sherlock agreed on, knowing full well that they would probably never actually like - or approve of - any of them.

John looked questioningly toward Sherlock, who shrugged. He'd learned over the years that deducing Rose had proven his greatest challenge. Moving to the couch, John slid his arms around her tentatively until he was sure it wasn't going to escalate things. She sort of melted against his shoulder and brushed at her tears with annoyance. "I'm done. They are just not worth it. Never again."

"Ok." He hugged her, felt her relax a bit. "What happened?"

"Sherlock happened." She blew out a breath with a snort of nervous laughter. "Ron was wonderful - until he realized who you were." John glanced over, and could tell Sherlock was already figuring out how to commit bodily injury on this boy, but his game face was on. "We barely had got on the tube when he was acting all weird, asking about how scary it must be having Sherlock Holmes for a father, that you could probably read minds, that we would never get away with anything..." she rattled on for a moment.

"Rose," Sherlock said, kindly as he stood up.

John eased back a bit and Rose buried her face in folded arms as she pulled into a near sitting fetal position. "What." she murmured into the cocoon of her contorted position.

"He's an idiot."

She turned her head to the side, able to see both men then. "I know," she wailed plaintively, "but I liked him anyway."

++

Rose barely waited for their dinner order to be taken at Angelo's before sharing her news. "I'm pretty sure I want to go to King's college."

She was beaming, and Sherlock took great pleasures in watching her and John. Their smiles were nearly mirrors on many occasions, including this one. His brown eyes sparkled and hers twinkled. Their identically colored hair, well, he corrected himself, John's had more than a touch of silver, but the texture and the light colors remained constant. Even the mannerism of tilting their heads when they considered something was so similar. He thought, not for the first time, how blessed he was. How blessed they all were.

Rose was continuing. "So I want to major in nursing there, and I've been toying with the idea of the Royal Army Nursing Corps."

Sherlock's foot found John's, and he pressed hard, bringing him to the immediacy of the present moment and John recovered. "Oh, yeah, you've been giving this some thought then."

Her laugh at his response was sweet and bubbling. "Yes, obviously." She reached out, then, took both of John's hands in both of hers. "And I want to know what you think? The truth."

"Truth?" John answered immediately, "You should do whatever your feeling led to do. You would be bloody terrific at being a military nurse."

"Doctor, even, Rose, if you wanted. Have you thought about following your ol' Papa into that instead?"

"Oh, of course. And my test scores were great, med school would be no problem." While it sounded perhaps a bit arrogant, and what 16 year old didn't sound arrogant from time to time?, she did give an honest assessment. Her aptitude for learning had surpassed both John and Sherlock. "I like what nursing brings to the patient. When Ollie was injured, the docs were great, of course, but it was the nurses who made the situation not awful. Remember how upset he was after? It was the nurse who calmed him down and explained everything. That's what I want." She shrugged. "And military, I just want that. I need it. More than anything. For queen and country, yeah?"

As they shared a clasping of the hands, John looked over at Sherlock and knew he was imagining things just as clearly as John himself was, seeing instead Rose, trim, polished, in full uniform, and breathtakingly beautiful. 

++

Rose came home from school several months later, raised an intelligent eyebrow at Sherlock, flopped on the couch and said, "You know I hate you, right?"

"From time to time, I believe that is normal, expected teenage behavior." He looked up from the computer on which he was editing a manuscript. "What did I do this time?"

"Remember how that one idiot date was afraid of you?" She snorted. "Well, now I have one who is obsessively interested, much more in you than in me." She strode to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, came back to square off with him. "I can't decide which is worse: when you attract them or frighten them off." She went off then, talking about how this boy faked being interested but conversation always geared around stuff going on at home, dropping hints for an invite, asking about the family's weekend plans. She broke off mid-sentence when she noticed a genuine, soppy grin on Sherlock's face. "What?"

"Your papa's working this weekend. Invite this guy over so I can play with him." They shared brief laughter, then Sherlock continued, "Please? Please?"

She grinned back at him, "Body parts and everything?" she asked, just as John opened the door and realized they were up to no good.

He hung up his coat, set his things down, greeted them both and went to the kitchen. "No body parts," he muttered.

++

"You know, between the two of you, my life is ruined." Sobs shook her, she took a deep breath and continued, tears now calmer but with a menacing tone.

John and Sherlock shared a glance, puzzled.

"I can't tolerate stupid people who play games, which is like, all of school right now." She smirked, rolled her eyes. "I blame you. You see everything, you have taught me critical thinking skills, and the mundane and the callow are just... intolerable."

John watched her a moment, realizing that Sherlock fought against that sentiment perpetually. "I'm not going to apologize for that, you know. You need to see and observe, just like you do. It's what is going to make you shine in this world, you know."

++

John tugged as his uniform until Sherlock, a steady presence at his side, gently brushed his hands away, settling him. John looked down at Rose with a lump in his throat and his love for her on his sleeve. She beamed back up at him, placed a warm hand on his. But it wasn't enough. Their heads came together then, his lips touching her forehead as her eyes drifted closed. "You've both done a great job, and I love you so much."

She turned then, shoulders back, head high, her cadet uniform new, polished, sharp. Proudly, she joined ranks in her unit as they marched in for the swearing in ceremony. John's heart grew as he looked at her, Sherlock's hand in his own. The sense of accomplishment was strong as she became a proud member of the Royal Army. And Sherlock would deny it later, but John glanced over to see Sherlock's eyes just slightly moist until he squeezed his hand, drawing a comforting look, and blinking rapidly.

++

John tugged as his uniform until Sherlock, a steady presence at his side, gently brushed his hands away, settling him. John looked down at Rose with a lump in his throat and his love for her on his sleeve. She beamed back up at him, placed a warm hand on his. But it wasn't enough. Their heads came together then, his lips touching her forehead as her eyes drifted closed. "You've both done a great job, and I love you so much."

The doors opened, the music began, and the trio entered the cathedral where Rose's fiance waited at the end of the aisle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many more adventures circulating, however, it is time to land the airplane, so to speak. Rose has greatly enriched the lives of all who know and love her. She is definitely a product of nature and nurture, her biology and her environment.
> 
> Comments encouraged - and always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> This short fan fiction is complete. It has been a long time in the works. There are more adventures for this newly enlarged family but it's time to put this story to completion.
> 
> Thanks especially to earlgreytea68 for well-written Sherlock fanfic.


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